


the moon and the stars (are nothing without you)

by orphan_account



Category: The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: F/F, M/M, Pining, also: romo, beth johanssen really likes the kitchen ??, ft. deep conversations to further the plotline with beth johanssen & various characters, lets also pretend heterosexual ships dont exist, sad people being sad, self rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4982863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ARES III Mission goes something like this: Things Are Fine, Things Are Not Fine (in which people are "killed"), Things Are Fine Again, and Oh My God! This Entire Crew Is Gay! </p><p>or: there's not nearly enough beckwatney in this fandom</p>
            </blockquote>





	the moon and the stars (are nothing without you)

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to preface my work by saying that prose is really not my strong suit; I work much better in poetry and free verse. However, I pushed myself through hours of Sam Smith & the endless punches of pillows to deliver this mediocre piece of work to the world because, oh my fucking god, there is no beckwatney anywhere. I would also apologize for johanssenlewis but why should I?

 

If Beck ever joined an “Asshole’s Anonymous” group, his introduction would go something like: “Hi, I’m Chris Beck and I don’t care about other people’s feelings”. Yeah, okay, he’s making it sound worse than it is, but that’s what he signed up for. He does his best to face the reality of death with shoulders squared, the visceral plummet of stomach when heart monitors scream and he’s still elbow-deep in surgery. All the hopelessness, the helplessness, and familiar greeting of the punch in the gut which leaves him breathless and choking for air, and yes, of course, the shrinks back at NASA - standing in every shade of bullshit they spout - reciprocate the exact sentiments. Their tones are gentler than the cold lighting of hospital hallways, but he’s always been snappish and testy by the end of his sessions.

All the psychologists in the world couldn’t have prepared Beck for the rush of adrenaline he’d gleaned from the back of burning fighter jets with no medical supplies except hands and hope. There’s nothing that prepared him for sleepless nights, years of pacing back and forth in his room and the bad days where he tried to bleach his skin clean. Beck’s has dealt with a lifetime of being a doctor, of toting the weight from swaying ghosts, but for the first time - all he wants to do is feel something besides pulsating ache that worms beneath his bones, knowing the crew lost Watney on Mars in more ways than one.

He would love to say that he takes his grief out in healthily instead keeping it bottled up, but that would be the biggest goddamn lie of the century. He’d love to say that he broke everything in his room (limited to a pencil) or gone to run a marathon on the treadmill, maybe even shut himself up and let had a good sob. He keeps searching through the tangle of his ribs, but there’s nothing to cry about, and wouldn’t that make anyone feel heartless? Even the unshakable Lewis had disappeared when she’d usually be wandering around; the ship being one of her great loves, burning furious beneath her calm facade. Watney’s dead on Mars and all Beck can think of is the fact he never confessed his love.

 

 

* * *

 

When he sleeps, Beck pressed his hands - one on top of the other - to where his chest aches. His heart pulses steadily under his fingertips, matching the cadence of the Hermes taking him home. When he dreams, Beck reaches out a hand and somehow, impossibly somehow, grabs Watney’s hand before he drifts away. And for trembling, horrible moments, he wishes that he was dead too.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey,” Johanssen says, looking up from her plate. Beck sets his food down at the dining table with a smile, eyes skirting the tangle of her hands with Lewis’.

“So….how’s everything going?” she asks.

He replies with a loose-limbed shrug, sitting down with a sigh, “Same as usual,” he says, spearing his sausage with particular gusto. “Nothing really interesting except, uh,” he scratches the back of his head. “Vogel’s lab explosions.”

Johanssen’s eyebrows raise.

“Something about glucose reactions and hypothetical situations of combining decaying radioactive elements with….anyway,” Beck trails off, seeing the glazed-over look that flashes across Johanssen’s face. “How’s your, er, computer-y business doing?” he asks. The question is stilted and tired, but she still laughs - a bright, beautiful sound that warms Beck right down to his toes.

“It’s fun,” she assures, touching him gently on the arm. Putting her fork down, her eyes gain a glint of excitement, and Beck prepares himself for moments of her wild-eyed animation and endless jargon, even though everything she says flies over his head and out the nearest airlock. He feels guilty, using her as escape from reality, but she draws attention with effortless ease, smile cresting the wave of her lips and lilt of voice.

It’s moments like these when Beck is reminded of her sheer brilliance and the lull of her impossible gravity. When Beck glances at the ethereous expression that adorns Lewis’ face, he knows isn’t the only one caught in her orbit.

 

* * *

 

 

Well. It turns out that Mark’s not dead!

…

Yay?

Johanssen sniffles from where she sits in front of the ship’s computer, as Lewis barks out a laugh, fingers a white knuckled grasp on the back of Beth’s chair. There’s nothing joyful about it, nothing happy.

“I left him there,” she says bitterly, mouth squeezing into a thin line. Her head lowers in the slightest centimeter of defeat, and Beck admits that it’s a little hard to process, even for the likes of their crew. “God,” she whispers, rubbing a hand across her face. “I left him there.”

Johanssen sighs softly from the computer, turning around in her chair to reply, but something powerful and choking surges in Beck’s throat, and he hears himself challenge with: “Yeah?” His voice is hard, and Lewis looks up, eyebrows furrowing. He shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, but knows his shoulders droop with exhaustion regardless. “You might have left him, but so did we, Commander.” “You were just following orders.

"It was my call to make,” she says harshly, crossing her arms.

“Commander-,” Martinez starts, pushing himself onto his feet.

“If I’d kept searching-”

“-you would’ve died and he’d have had to deal with that problem,” Vogel says, holding his hands out complacently.

“If I’d kept searching,” she repeats, glaring at the back of Johanssen’s head, “We might have found him and we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Hey, now. You don’t know that,” Johanssen pipes up, swiveling around in her chair. “The HAB could’ve blown and then we’d all be dead on Mars. Boom. Surefire way to leave NASA with bad rep and loss of funding in a single decision.”

Lewis clenches her jaw and looks away, blinking hard.

“Point is, Commander,” Martinez says gently, “It’s all our faults that Watney’s stranded on Mars - not just yours.”

“You were following orders,” she bites out, sounding like she’s trying to convince herself, rather than her crewmates. “Orders that I gave,” she finishes.

Nobody dares to challenge her.

“Well, uh, I was the one who pronounced him dead,” Beck says suddenly, breaking the silence with hands shoved into his pockets.

Engines and computers fill the quiet beneath their feet, and Beck shifts awkwardly - suddenly aware of weighted stares, the alive floor warming the soles of shoes. Lewis somehow looks at a loss for words, yet her mouth opens to object.

Beck swallows heavily.

“With all due respect, Commander, if I hadn’t done that, do you think we would’ve left Mars at all?” he asks, blinking hard, fingers tightening against his thigh. “I’m sure we would have gone back to the HAB and sent out a search party after the storm cleared up, but you know what? I pronounced him dead because that’s what NASA told me to do - the way they told you to make big decisions on a foreign planet, and please excuse my language, but fuck you if you think that makes a difference to us.”

There’s another pause, equally as dramatic as the first.

“Long story short,” Martinez cuts in cheerfully, “We don’t blame you,” he says, hovering over Johanssen’s shoulder. “And neither does Watney, it seems.” He points at the screen, the slightest grin tracing his lips.

 

* * *

 

 

Mark’s back on the Hermes, and Beck is at loose ends.

In his adrenaline induced haze, he’d finished Watney’s medical examination, the procedure mind-numbingly mundane compared to weeks of heightened anxiety, the feeling of relief and the something that tightens in his chest at the sight of Mark sprawled across the airlock’s floor - alive and breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’m spicing up your diet with actual food and a couple supplements,” Beck says conversationally, scribbling a prescription in his notebook and tearing out the page to hand it to Mark. “This all doesn’t really mean anything, since it’s not an official document, but there are some instructions on when to take what so I can make sure you don’t die of malnutrition before we get back to Earth.”

He tries to ignore the way Mark presses against his shoulder, the places where their hips and knees meet in unspoken familiarity as he pats him on the thigh.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, and standing. “I’d be careful of your ribs, though I’m sure you don’t need someone to tell you that; the Mars ascent wasn’t pretty.”

He then levels Mark with a stern glare.

“And, for god’s sake, don’t do anything that hurts you.”

“Yeah I know,” Watney says irritably, nose wrinkling as he scans the paper. “There’s no need for you to baby me to death.”

Beck crosses his arms, unimpressed.

“I handled myself on Mars just fine, I’ll have you know.”

Beck’s eyebrows raise.

“Oh my fucking-yes, you asshole, I’ll take care of myself,” Watney relents, tossing his hands up in the air. “Now piss the fuck off and let me sleep.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mark wakes with a scream lodged uncomfortably in his throat, breathing hard.

He rolls out of bed in his half-asleep panic, hitting the floor with a dull thud as he attempts to untangle himself from sweaty blankets - managing a desperate crawl halfway to the door, trying to shake off the crush of Martian sky all the while. He clambers to his feet unsteadily, the room dark enough to send him tripping over unfamiliar objects, despite the fact that nobody’s been through his room since he last left the Hermes. Even half-eaten protein bars remained on his desk.

Gross.

Recoiling when he flips the light switch, he pushes himself onto his feet anyway, wadding up the blankets to toss them in the direction of the bed. He shoves himself into a pair of shoes and flings the door open, raking a hand through his hair and trying to ignore the fact he startles from every bump and creak of the ship’s hull.

When he wakes up like this, on edge and panicked, he doesn’t have anything better to do but wander. The ship’s big enough anyway, there’s no need to be bored of it so soon.

He walks around aimlessly for a bit, dimly aware of his aching ribs and the space outside the Hermes’ windows. There’s really nowhere interesting to poke his head into because he’s been banned from the gym (he suspects that if he even glances at the door, Beck will magically appear behind him and beat his ass. Metaphorically, of course, but beat his ass all the same) and he can’t stomach the idea of visiting Beck’s room, even though his back is killing him and he’s been meaning to ask him about it. The safest bet is the kitchen, so he makes a direct beeline for it, nearly crashing into Johanssen when he opens the door.

After countless reassurances that - no, he’s not going to die from walking into someone and, yes - he’s not just saying it because he’s saying it - the topic turns to what Mark’s most excited about: food.

He trails after Johanssen, poking his head into various drawers and relearning the nooks and crannies of his giant, floating, metallic home.

“I was about to get something to eat,” Johanssen remarks offhandedly, half her head stuck in the pantry, “You want anything in particular? Any post-Martian cravings you’re dying to cure?”

Mark shrugs, buried between memory and reality, the sleek lines of the Hermes blurring into slightly dingier ones of the HAB, and for a split second - Johanssen is living in his bygone days. But he blinks, and she’s magically sitting on the countertop with her legs swinging back and forth.

“I hope you don’t mind chicken and rice. I kinda picked the first thing out of the bunch,” Johanssen admits sheepishly, reaching over and popping the microwave door open. “If it’s not your cup of tea, I’m sure we can find something else.”

“As long as it’s not potatoes,” Watney sighs, “I’m down.”

“Good to hear,” she laughs, tossing him a fork. Beckoning him with a tilt of her head, she hands him the plate as he hovers awkwardly by her shoulder, staring at the floor. He would take a seat, but Mark’s pretty sure he’s going to brain himself on the overhead cabinets if he tries.

“Everything going okay?” she asks, popping another package into the microwave. Her legs swing, back and forth, back and forth.

“It’s nice to be back with you guys,” Mark admits, and goes in for a casual bite of chicken before his eyes widen and he lets out an obscene moan. Laughing, Johanssen bumps their shoulders together with an air of playfulness.

“That good, huh?” she asks.

Mark nods, and promptly tries to bury himself in the mass of rice. Death by food.

Nice obituary title, Watney.

They eat together in silence for a few minutes, where the click-tap of Johanssen’s shoes against the cabinets beneath her feet living as the loudest noise in the room.

“Okay, uh,” Mark starts hesitantly, slightly uncomfortable with breaking the silence. “It’s honestly a great to not have to worry about death all the time, you know? All this,” he gesticulates wildly with his fork, “I really, _really_ missed.”

Johanssen nods in understanding, chewing around her fork with an air of thoughtfulness. “For all that it’s worth,” she says softly, gaze between her toes. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Watney smiles.

“Yeah, I’m real glad I’m not dead too,” he ribs, half-joking.

He takes another bite.

“The only downside, though,” he starts with a rush, “is that I feel like something’s crawled up Beck’s ass and died.”

He winces, excpting more of a reaction from Johanssen but the quirk of her eyebrow.

“I mean,” Watney tries to amend, afraid he might have offended her. “I might be the only one he’s pissed at because he’s never liked me all too much, and you know how he is with the “everybody aboard the Hermes should be in peak health” thing, but-”

“- Nah,” she cuts in, tucking hair behind her ear. “It really isn’t you.”

Watney watches as her thoughts drift off, eyes unfocusing into distances beyond the walls of the Hermes, and for the first time since he’s been back - he wonders if there’s something he missed.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Dude, my legs have gone to sleep,” Martinez says, poking Mark in the shoulder where he’s sprawled across his friend’s lap, tongue between his teeth as he navigates a particularly intense session of Flappy Bird

“Sorry but, uh, serious business,” Watney says distractedly. “I’m about to reach a new high score, and I’ve got priorities here.”

“Yeah, well my priority is hoping to be able to walk once you get your ass off of me.”

“Just give me a moment, Martinez,” Mark says irritably, jabbing the screen with a shade of frustration.

“It’s not like I have much choice in this,” he grumbles unhappily. “

Yeah, yeah, all I hear is complaints about having my beautiful self draped over you,” Watney grumbles, “Do you know how many people would pay to have my famous ass in their face?”

“I’m not sure you have any ass to begin with,” he remarks casually, patting Watney’s head. He gives his comment a moment to sink in, and waits for the reaction in three….two…" _Hey_! The hell did you say about my ass Martinez?”

Mark throws his tablet aside and practically tosses himself against Martinez, dragging the two of them to the floor.

They share a brief scuffle, and while the argument was much less heated than a proper fight, the resulting skirmish is punctuated with muffled “ow, you’re squishing my kidney, Mark” and “you don’t even know where your kidney is, asshole, stop trying’ta-” and “ow, ow, ow, ow, oh my fucking god, ow, ribs, Martinez! Watch the goddamn- _ow_!”

“Jesus! When’s the last time you talked to Beck?” Martinez asks, rolling off Mark and scrambling to his feet.

Watney coughs, trying to avoid the question as he braces an elbow against the couch and inches himself upward.

“It’s a damn good thing he’s off-duty right now,” Martinez mutters, rolling his eyes. “Come along now, princess,” he says, grabbing onto Watney’s arm.

He marches them down multiple corridors, ignoring frantic protests before standing him before Beck’s door.

“Really?” Watney laughs uneasily, “You know Beck doesn’t like me, and if he finds out that I didn’t talk to him about this...”

“He’s gonna get majorly pissed, I know, but if you stall longer, you’re going to be facing the reincarnation of Satan himself.”

“Martinez,” Watney moans, “I need you to know that I love you and respect all your decisions-”

“And I want you to know that you’re a walking, talking, piece of contradictory sh-”

“-and you’re very valuable in this entire operation-”

“-which means you need to get yourself checked out by our resident doctor here,” Martinez gestures at Beck’s closed door.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Watney says, holding his hands out in a placating gesture, “I’m not saying that a full physical is off the table. I’m just asking for a little bit of...wiggle room? Some shimmy time for me to prepare a little, so that I can-”

“-bullshit your way out of a proper medical examination? Because I know for a fact that Beck takes these exams like the god of astrobiology’s come down and blessed him-”

“-I’m a good fucking person, Martinez! I don’t deserve to be backstabbed by my best friend-”

“-oh so now, I’m your “best friend”? Where is this appreciation when you’re going about in your day to day life, all high and mighty thinking that botany’s this great form of science-”

“-it is!” “-and believing that chemistry doesn’t have a vital role in this mission running smoothly-”

“-okay, yeah that part is still true, but that doesn’t have anything to do with-”

“-it has everything to do with-”

“Can I help you two?” a disgruntled voice asks, and both Martinez and Watney’s heads snap around guiltily.

Beck leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and looking like he’s just rolled out of bed, and is somehow still the goddamn sexiest thing Mark’s ever set his eyes on. He’s got a pillow crease on his face and uncombed hair, glaring at the two of them as if they’re the reason for everything horrible in the world - obviously woken up from Mark’s impromptu squabble with Martinez.

Not the most comforting thought at the moment.

Beck’s scowl deepens as the silence drags on.

“If you’re here to interrupt my sleep schedule, I want to let you know that I’m shutting the door now,” he says, reaching for the handle.

“Wait!” Mark blurts. Beck turns to look at him, devastatingly beautiful.

“Yes, Watney?”

And Mark’s brain shorts out.

“Uh…” he fumbles, searching for the proper words.

“It’s his ribs,” Martinez supplies helpfully, practically pushing Mark into Beck’s room. “I suggested an examination. He protested, but I dragged him here anyway.”

“Much appreciated,” Beck smiles warmly, inviting Watney into his quarters with a firm tug of the elbow. He waves goodbye to Martinez as the latter takes off in the opposite direction, conveniently stranding Mark in the midst of Beck’s room (he’s still trying to compute the fact that he’s in Beck’s room - _oh my fucking god_ ), unsure of what to do.

He tries to look around as discreetly as he can, curiosity getting the better of him. There are stacks of paper strewn about, lab reports and experiment results that make no sense to him lying unattended on a desk. A cup of cold tea sits on a NASA coaster. The bed is a mess of blanket and pillow, and Mark winces internally at the sight, trying to ignore the fact he was the one who dragged him from sleep.

“So,” Beck sighs, closing the door with a click. “Is there a reason you didn’t come to me earlier about this?”

He levels Mark with a look of disapproval.

“And I’m sure you know I’m just dying to hear your excuse for being overdue for a check-in.”

He stops by the desk to slide on a pair of glasses. “I’m not sure what’s going on in that head of yours, but keeping medical problems a secret doesn’t make me the most agreeable person on this ship.”

Watney coughs into his fist, studiously avoiding Beck’s gaze. He sighs and pulls open his desk drawer, rummaging through stacks of reports and a couple logs.

Mark manages to catch a glimpse of crewmate files, manila folders bursting with paperwork - all stamped with NASA’s seal of confidentiality. Unsurprisingly, Mark’s records lie at the bottom of the pile.

“This is entirely off record,” Beck says suddenly. “And that’s because I don’t want the public to get their hands on this information, since I like to practice a great thing called doctor-patient confidentiality.”

He directs Mark to the sole chair in the room before taking a heavy seat on his mattress.

“If you could take off your shirt, please.”

There’s a prolonged silence where Beck scribbles things on his clipboard and Watney tries to pretend that the atmosphere isn’t as awkward as it is. It’s probably just him, anyway, but he’s choking on the quiet and he doesn’t bother to think before saying, “I didn’t want tell you about this ‘cause you looked pretty busy,” Watney offers as an excuse, “And nothing’s broken, anyway.”

Beck rolls his eyes, wheeling Watney’s chair closer to him.

“Tell me if I press on anything that hurts,” is all he says, setting warm hands on Watney’s stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

“Well,” Beck starts slowly, running a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t....seem like anything’s gotten worse since the first time I looked you over.”

“So I’m okay?” Watney asks eagerly, pushing himself to his feet.

“ _No_ , and sit back down,” Beck replies, unamused. “I said it’s nothing major, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got the all-clear from me.”

Mark twiddles his thumbs. “So. Uh…”

“I’m upping your Vitamin C intake by 40% because,” he gestures to the bruises vaguely, “That’s not a good sign, but I’m not going to prescribe any medication unless the pain gets really bad - it really shouldn’t, if you’re following my guidelines, but if anything worsens you’ll let me be the first to know.”

He gives Mark with stern look.

“Yeah, yeah,” Watney grumbles, sliding into his shirt. “I hope you know if you didn’t leave me on Mars this wouldn’t have happened.”

When Beck’s shoulders stiffen, grasp tighting on the pen enough to warrant concern, and Watney immediately knows that was the wrong thing to say.

“Is that what this is?” he asks, voice dangerously quiet.

Mark scoots his chair back an inch.

“So we’re a joke to you, Watney?”

“No,” Mark says. “I’m sorry that came out weird, you don’t understand-”

“I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand here, Watney,” he seethes, eyes flashing, “Can you imagine how it felt for Commander Lewis felt to tell Martinez to leave? Because I sure as hell wouldn’t have had the strength in me to know I just killed someone I care a damn lot about.”

“Beck, look-”

“There’s nothing for me to look at,” he says coldly, letting out a breath which does nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. Watney doesn’t know what to do, so he sits with hands folded primly in his lap, biting his lip. The silence stretches into the sound of pen on paper. Beck sighs after a while, sounding defeated when he says, “Sorry. I know you’ve got bigger problems than some shitty guilt complex,” he pauses, looking at the floor. “If you need anything, you know where I am, but right now I’m inclined to declare this conversation finished.”

He hands Watney an official-looking piece of paper before moving to open the door. As he does, something in Mark’s head goes “fuck it” and he grabs for Beck’s wrist, freezing him in his tracks, the other’s back going rigid.

Beck’s tone is carefully controlled when he asks, “What do you want, Watney?”

Mark swallows, gaze flickering to the floor; he’s damn glad he’s can’t be seen right now.

“I’m just-,” he starts, stopping to pull in a desperate breath. “I’m sorry about all this shit,” he laughs. “All this shit about me.” Beck sighs again, looking up at the ceiling. “You shouldn’t waste so much time feeling sorry you thought I was dead, okay? Not many people would’ve missed me, except, you know, my parents and whatever,” he admits, and Beck jerks his hand from Watney’s grip as if he’s been electrocuted.

“I’m sorry?” the doctor asks, tremor nearly imperceptible in his voice.

“I said-”

“I know what you said,” Beck cuts in, “But I wanted to know if you still haven’t realized how the entire globe was rallying to bring you back to Earth.”

Mark laughs out bitterly at the statement. “Right. Right, because If it were me - just ordinary me - on that planet with the rest of you, do you think the world would even pause to give me a thought?” he asks, “The only reason people started caring was because of circumstance,” he says. “They didn’t care about who I was; they only cared about what I was doing.”

Beck doesn’t reply, back still turned to Watney.

“And the only reason you care,” Mark plows forward, walking around so they’re face to face, “Is because you couldn’t save me and now you feel guilty I had to experience everything I did.”

“Shut up,” Beck hisses. “Just shut the hell up,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “And here I was, thinking you couldn’t surprise me anymore, Watney, but you just blew me out of the goddamn water.”

“By telling you the truth?”

“By lying to yourself,” Beck interrupts, and Mark feels like he’s been punched in the face. “Look, right now I’m more concerned about your physical and emotional wellbeing more than anything else, but I’d be happy to have counseling sessions with you if you need-”

“I don’t need counseling,” Marks says shortly.

“It was just a suggestion-”

“There’s no reason for you to waste time trying to fix how fucked-up I am,” Watney exhales, glaring at Beck as if daring him to challenge the statement.

“Watney,” Chris breathes, shaking his head. “It’s not a waste of time.”

“You’ve got more important things to be worried about,” Mark says, “And I’m not sure you want to spend an hour listening to me cry about my problems.”

“We have six months left on this mission,” Beck replies, deadpan, “I’m sure it’s not going to kill me to spend an extra hour with you.”

“You’re not a psychologist.”

“I dabbled,” he supplies, “In med school.”

“It’s not going to be fun and games.”

“As PTSD hardly is, Mark,” Beck sighs.

“Then why the hell would you ever-”

“-Because I care about you?”

“If you gave two shits about me you wouldn’t be lying all the goddamn time-”

“Are you accusing me of lying to you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so,” Mark says, surprised at his statement. “It’s just-I just...I know you aren’t giving me the whole truth here, because I can tell when people are trying to bullshit their way through a conversation, so you might as well admit that-”

“That I’m what?” Beck shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “That I have feelings for you? That when we could finally message you when you were on Mars, I gave Martinez my minutes because I couldn’t stand the idea of having a conversation? The fact it killed me to know you thought Johanssen and I had a thing going on between us and had the nerve to tell me to make a move as your dying message? Because, I’m sure this is news to you, but we’re both really fucking gay.”

There’s a moment silence where Watney stares at Beck with shocked expression, mouth moving without sound. The latter swallows, looking away with watering eyes and sniffles.

“Uh,” Watney asks eventually, “Chris?”

Beck turns to look him in the eye.

“Yeah?” he replies, voice gruff.

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” Mark says, rocking forward on the balls of his feet to bring their lips together.

Beck makes a muffled noise, protest or shock, Mark doesn’t care; he’s too busy squeezing his eyes and hoping against hope that he hasn’t made the wrong choice this time around. There’s a moment, up in the air, where Beck is taut beneath Watney’s touch, the ship singing beneath their feet, until he hesitant slides a finger up Watney’s arm to his jawline and Mark’s arms settle on his back like they were made to fit together.

It’s less a kiss and more of a promise; a declaration of devotion and the knowledge that yes, yes we’re here and this is real.

Reassurance, anchorage, love.

When they pull apart, Beck closes his eyes as Watney presses their foreheads together - smiling.

 

* * *

 

 

“They’re so gross,” Johanssen complains, mushing her face against Lewis’ shoulder with a faux gag. “Can you order them to stop being aggressively adorable in my line of vision?” “

They’re cuddling, Beth,” Lewis replies fondly, thumb brushing over the back of Johanssen’s hand. “We do it too, you know.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to admit that we’re the cutest couple on this ship,” Johanssen says.

Lewis laughs, “I can’t argue with that, can I?”

“Nah, I really think you can’t,” Beth agrees, tilting her chin up to kiss her.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for much for reading!


End file.
